


Parallax

by Saathi1013



Series: Ephemerides [2]
Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: (basically if you know the series you know what the relationship setup is), (this story may end unhappily but it's a part of the whole), Angst, First Time, M/M, Other, POV Alternating, POV Male Character, POV Third Person Limited, Separations, Somewhat Unhappy Ending, background kara/dee, background lee/dee, background lee/kara, background sam/dee, background sam/kara, not a standalone fic is what I'm saying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 18:09:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11236407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Saathi1013
Summary: Due to a changed twist of fate, Dee and Kara are on New Caprica, and Sam and Lee are stuck on Pegasus when the Fleet jumps away.  This is the first time since the wedding that the two men have spent an extended period of time alone together.Takes place concurrently with Chapter 1 of Syzygy, the first fic in the Ephemerides series, which tells the story from Dee's pov.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Julandran for the fantastic and speedy beta, and to Cbucsrule7 for the steady encouragement. Also to Walutahanga and Redroslin for their takes on the Quad, which have both reminded me how much I love these four characters and this au so much.
> 
> If you've subscribed &/or commented on this series before: I do this for you, too. Thank you for your patience. There's just one story (in this series) left for me to write. I won't leave you hanging. :)

 

 

Sam knows he's out of the woods when the doctor glances at him over the edge of her clipboard and announces, "Congratulations, Anders. I'm telling the Commander he can get you out of my hair."

Then he realizes that Lee's the only family he's got on board, and tries to hide his panic behind a quip and a winning smile. "Aw, you don't want to keep me a little longer?"

Stoffa rolls her eyes and shakes her head, an answering smirk quirking her lips regardless. "I think I'll leave you to your husband's TLC. Bed rest for another week, and I'll pack up your meds and supplements to take with you – don't skip a dose, or you'll end up right back here."

"Yes, Ma'am," Sam says, and lets himself slump back against the pillows as soon as she's gone. _Husband_ , he thinks. _Lee._

_Frak, this is going to be weird, isn't it?_

 

***

 

"The thing you have to know about Adamas," Kara had told him once, "is that they feel a lot but suck at talking about it."

"No wonder you wanted to join the family," Sam had responded, and she'd smacked him on the arm.

"No, really," she'd said. "But I can tell, Sam. Lee likes you; he just doesn't know how to show it."

"If you say so," Sam had said, not entirely convinced. He could believe ‘respect,’ sure, but Lee didn't seem the type to make friends easy.

_It’s okay, though_ , he'd thought at the time. He could make do with respect. There’d been plenty of time to settle into their new arrangement, with Dee or Kara there to fill out the spaces in between until then.

 

***

 

Lee swings open the hatch to let Sam step through and the emptiness of the room hits Sam like a tackle to the gut.

"So, uh, you already know where everything is, right?" Lee says, and Sam's reminded of one of his early visits, Kara busy supervising the painting crews on New Caprica and Lee called away to Galactica by the Admiral. Only Sam and Dee at dinner, making her laugh with a stupid C-Bucs story. How Lee had come home looking drained before he'd spotted Sam, and how a pleasant, wary mask had settled over his features. Then Dee had gotten up to kiss Lee on the cheek in welcome, Sam had pushed the untouched third plate towards him, and things had eased somewhat.

Lee's face has the same distant expression now, though. _I shouldn't be here_ , Sam thinks. _I don't know how to do this_. "Yeah," he says aloud. "Look, Lee, I—”

He doesn't get the chance to finish. Lee makes a twisted, wordless gesture in the air between them and steps away. "I have to... I'm on duty in the CIC," he says, and is gone before Sam can say another word.

 

***

 

Sam knows how the couch folds down, military efficiency in every piece of furniture coming in handy. He remembers how Lee and Dee had bickered good-naturedly about setting up a scheduled rotation for who would sleep where, while Kara had just started shoving at the couch until Sam had helped her drag it over by the main bed.

"That’ll do for now," Dee had said, frowning at how the couch blocked the sliding wall, blurring the line between the semi-public office and reception space and the hidden living space. “I call the middle,” she’d added, grabbing the extra blankets.

"I call the wall," Kara had said, and Sam found himself snuggled up behind Dee on the sofa-mattress, his hand brushing Kara's as her arm was slung around Lee's waist.

It didn't quite work; the height of the main bed was higher by about an inch or so, but it was close enough. The next time Sam had visited, there were two broad cushioned benches along the wall that could roll neatly into place on either side of the bed. “Someone in the fab shop owed me a favor,” Dee had explained with a sly curl to her mouth.

Now, Sam finds himself reluctant to open that wall, to go near the bed. Instead, he grabs a throw from the back of one of the chairs and settles onto the couch with an old Libran political thriller Lee had brought him in sickbay. Not something he'd pick for himself, but it's better than nothing.

 

***

 

Lee spends the next several hours distracted by what he should have said. _I'm glad you're feeling better_ , or _I'm glad you made it out in time_.

Or _I don't blame you._

He paces the CIC, around and around. Shakes away the should-have thoughts and concentrates on supervising the fuel unreps and the CAP. He checks the status of key ships in the Fleet, the calculations for the next FTL jump, reports from the Raptor listening for word from New Caprica. Halfway through his shift, Bishop, his new XO with a sharp chin and gray-green eyes, takes him aside and advises him to leave. "You're making the crew nervous, Sir," she says, leveling her icy ocean stare at him before she softens her voice, sympathetic. "We can call you when we need you."

Lee nods. "All right," he says. "You have the conn."

She snaps a salute at him, clean and quick and by the book, and he returns it before stepping out through the glass doors.

He walks the hallways, still a little strange to call his own, even after over a year. He's fond of Pegasus, though, loves the bones of her, the clean lines and angles glinting brighter than the older Galactica. He's warmed to the crew, now that they've gotten accustomed to their new circumstances, gotten a little less prickly, a little less wary. Laird had been the first – he'd heard scuttlebutt about Lee standing by Roslin when Tigh had declared martial law, and apparently that was enough to convince the Chief that his past wouldn't repeat itself under his newest Commander.

Steered by these thoughts, Lee's feet take him to the Viper production bay, where he finds the machinery idle and rows of gleaming new ships standing empty. He rubs at his eyebrow and wonders how the recruitment program is going, how many kids they have in training.

For a moment, he forgets and thinks about asking Starbuck.

"Frak," he spits, and crashes the side of his fist against a pylon, which rings with a dull thump that echoes behind him as he leaves.

Lee's through the hatch to his quarters before he realizes where he's going. He draws breath to speak just as he spots Sam asleep on the couch, a dog-eared paperback fallen to the deck by his lax hand. The air leaves Lee's lungs in a sigh.

He quietly crosses the room, crouching to get the book when Sam sits up with a start, one hand going under the pillow for a weapon Lee hopes isn't there. "Hey," he says softly. "Just me."

Sam's shoulders slump, and he screws the base of one palm against his eye. "Sorry, I was dreaming," he says.

Lee turns to sit on the coffee table. "New Caprica?" he asks, quiet, staring down at his hands.

"Old," Sam replies.

"...ah," Lee says, nodding at the deck. "I'm sorry."

Sam shoves the blanket away with an aggravated noise. "C'mon, Lee, everyone's got a shitty story. I'm not special."

Lee looks up at him, mouth open to say— what? _You are,_ maybe, or: _you're all I have left_.

Sam shifts his eyes away from the weight of Lee's gaze, and gets to his feet. "I gotta," he says, and retreats to the head. Lee drops his head and rubs at the back of his neck with one hand. He thinks of empty Vipers, and the sound of Kara's laugh as she scolded nuggets over the comms.

Lee goes to the phone and dials the CIC. "Yes, sir?" Hoshi asks.

"Yeah," Lee says. "Can you patch me through to Galactica?"

 

***

 

After New Caprica’s communal and makeshift facilities, the spartan private bathroom in Lee’s quarters seems like a luxury. He and Kara used to scramble for the first shower on their visits until they’d started sharing, which didn’t quite work and once almost ended in a dislocated shoulder. After that, Dee enforced alternating turns, which Kara had declared less fun, but Sam had privately endorsed for the sake of not breaking his neck eventually.

Memory clouds his thoughts as thick as steam. Sam turns the faucet from hot to cold after washing his hands, splashing his face and avoiding looking into the mirror. He stares at his hands instead, and that’s not much better, the harsh light from overhead catching on his ring. Sam gives in, dries his hands, and exits.

Lee’s hanging up the receiver with a grim expression. “Everything all right?” Sam asks, and then swallows the backpedaling addendum that leaps to the tip of his tongue. Because of course the only answer is _no_ , but he’s still worried, anxious for whatever news he can get, desperate for Lee to tell him something – _anything_ – about what the Fleet’s going to do next.

“Not really,” Lee says, fidgeting with his uniform, pulling it taut around a waistline grown softer, stockier from relaxing his guard, remembering to eat proper meals, spending evenings in more pleasant diversions than going to the gym. Lee seems oddly... self-conscious about it. Sam feels the faint impulse to go over, offer some kind of wordless reassurance, but that’s not what they are to each other. That’s not what this is.

Lee’s still talking. “I’ve got to go over to Galactica, get some crewmembers to transfer, optimize our resources, that kind of thing.” He rubs the side of a knuckle against his forehead. “We’ve got more birds than pilots, unbalanced deck crews, supply overages in some places and shortages in others… It was fine when we were in geosynch, had all the time we needed, but now…”

Sam nods. He’d seen Tyrol struggling with similar problems on New Caprica, but never had any way to help. He’s better with people than _stuff_ , better at making do with what’s at hand and what he can scrounge than juggling production and supply, let alone balancing those against the uncertain and fluctuating demands of several fragmented communities adrift and on the run. Sam’s never had to manage so many people, so many resources, in such terrain as this. He doesn’t envy Lee, or the Admiral, one bit.

Sam realizes what’s got Lee so anxious, then. “The Admiral’s wound pretty tight about it, huh,” he says, cautious and quiet.

Lee’s eyes flicker up, and he laughs, rueful and bitter. “That obvious?” He shrugs. “Yeah, it’s not easy for anybody, but I think it’s hardest for him.”

Looking at the lines of strain around Lee’s eyes and mouth, how his shoulders and jaw are set in rigid lines, Sam wonders if that’s true. “When do you leave?” Sam asks.

“I’ll head over when the CAP switches at eighteen hundred. It’ll save some fuel, and I’ll catch some pilots on deck before they scatter.”

Sam nods. “Then you have time to walk me to the mess and we can grab some lunch,” he says. “You can make sure I don’t pass out in the halls.” He keeps his voice light, casual, but he wants Lee to keep talking, explain what’s going on. He needs to _know_.

Something must show in his eyes, because Lee stares at him for a moment then nods sharply, once, looking down at his hands.

 

***

 

Lee doesn’t know what Sam wants; it’s definitely not for the physical support he’d used as an excuse, because his strides are steady and his breathing’s even, obvious in the nearly-empty hallways. A few crew members pass by, saluting casually, and after the third time this happens, Lee catches Sam hiding a smile.

“What?” he asks.

“I keep forgetting,” Sam says, grinning slyly now, “I’m married to a fleet commander. Commander of the _Pegasus_. I feel like a kept man.”

Lee rolls his eyes. “That would imply that—” he says, then bites his tongue, realizing that there’s no way to end that sentence in a way he won’t regret. Sam’s grin becomes flat-out _indecent_ , and Lee makes sure no one is around to see when he deliberately checks his husband into a wall the next time they turn a corner.

He can tell that this is Sam making an effort to bridge the space between them that’s always been filled by their wives; whether he’s trying to find an anchor or be one, Lee’s not sure. All he knows is that he feels adrift without Dee’s voice on the comms, without Kara in her Viper, without knowing if either of them are still—

Well, they have that in common, at least. It’s a start.

So at lunch, they talk about Pegasus, about the Galactica. Sam asks about the structure, the routine he’s always easily fitted himself around during visits but never quite comprehended, all the things that Lee learned before he had all the words to understand. Galley instead of kitchen, head instead of bathroom, hatches instead of doors, decks instead of floors… Tripping over vocabulary and backtracking, Sam drawing connections between military discipline and his professional athletic background, cracking terrible jokes that Lee smiles at, despite himself.

Then they’re trading tactics, Sam discussing the most effective techniques he discovered on Caprica, Lee bringing in what he learned at the Academy, and they’re scribbling diagrams on the back of outdated notices from the corkboard. “No, that won’t work here,” Lee’s saying, and Sam steals the pen back, saying “No, I know, but—” until Bishop’s voice on the PA interrupts them.

Lee twists to see the clock. “Ah, crap,” he says. “It’s later than I thought. I should check in at the CIC.” He looks at Sam, brow furrowed. “Will you be okay getting back?”

Sam nods. “I think so. Might make a wrong turn or two, but I’ll find my way eventually.” He stands and starts gathering up papers to put in the recycler.

“No,” Lee says. “Keep those. They might come in handy.” He gets up, clapping Sam on the shoulder as he passes, and then pauses, hand lingering. “And Sam, take the bed.”

Sam shakes his head. “I can’t, it’s not—”

“You need it more than I do,” Lee says. “Come on.” He doesn’t know what else he can do to make things better for Sam, but giving him a comfortable place to sleep is a start. “Please.”

“...yeah, okay,” Sam says reluctantly. Lee pats his shoulder again and leaves.

 

***

 

Sam deliberately gets lost on the way back, occasionally turned away from corridors by marines who don’t recognize him or waved past by a couple that do. He doesn’t want to go back to that empty room, and he figures that learning the layout of the ship is as good a way as any to spend his time.

He passes by several duty racks, quiet now, unfamiliar faces in familiar uniforms glancing his way, disinterested. He pauses by the gym, considers the free weights, but he can tell his body’s not up for it, even this easy walk making his joints ache with fatigue.

Still, he keeps wandering, finding the ready room, the war room, an empty cell with the door ajar and the lights turned off that he backpedals away from, revulsion and something like visceral fear speeding his steps away, _away._ He’s heard rumors, snippets and oblique references, shouted implications when Lee and Kara had an argument, once. He still doesn’t understand why they’d fought over the well-worn folding blade Kara carried everywhere, of all things, but there’s clearly history worn into these walls that he doesn’t want to prod too casually.

Sam walks on. His steps don’t bring him home, but by the time he finds himself at Lee and Dee’s quarters, it’s close enough. He takes his pills and curls up in their bed, sleep a twining weight around his limbs and his chest that creeps in as soon as he hits the lights.

 

***

 

Another visit to Galactica, another mutually frustrating but ultimately – _marginally_ – productive conversation with his father. Lee’s got more pilots now, but nothing like full capacity, and half of them still need training, which means endless drills and reshuffling the roster so that the CAP can fly with minimal mishaps.

It’s better. And they’ve got the supply issue worked out, at least for the immediate future. The remaining civilians could fit on a single ship if they wanted, but they can’t afford to discard additional transport vessels in case the rescue plan needs the space on a moment’s notice. So all the passengers and crew on each ship are confined to one section, air and other utilities limited to those spaces, only essential systems running.

The Fleet is like a ghost town, drifting through the stars. Waiting…

Lee sighs, closing the hatch as quietly as he can and opting to strip out of his blues in the dark in lieu of waking Sam. He doesn’t want to talk right now, even to exchange friendly greetings; he just wants to sleep, to let his mind turn off for a while before he starts all over again in the morning.

He’s just about to settle onto the couch when he hears Sam’s sleepy murmur. “...Lee?”

Lee scrubs a hand down his face, suppressing a frustrated groan. “Yeah, Sam?”

“Come to bed, man,” Sam says. The sheets rustle. “The couch sucks when it’s not folded down, c’mon.” There’s a couple of thumps, as if he’s patted the mattress.

“I—”

“The bed’s too big,” Sam says, voice threading quiet through the darkness, a hushed confession.

“Yeah, okay,” Lee says, because Sam’s right. Maybe that’s why he’d offered it to Sam in the first place. He goes to bed.

Later, he wonders whether a part of him had known that this would be the inevitable solution.

 

***

 

When Sam wakes up, Lee’s already dressed and pulling on his shoes.

“Morning,” he says, “I’ve got a full day, but if you need me just pick up the phone; they’ll forward it to wherever I am.”

Sam yawns, stretching, seeing Lee’s eyes shift away. “Anything I can do to help?” Sam asks.

Lee frowns, and Sam can see the denial already forming, but then Lee sits up, face clearing. “Actually, yeah, can you write up some of the stuff we talked about yesterday at lunch?”

“I already gave a wrap-up when we arrived from Caprica,” Sam says. “Don’t you have a copy?”

“Sure,” Lee says, “but you might remember something new. You also know more about the terrain and infrastructure of New Caprica than I do. We won’t know what will become essential intel until we see it.”

“...all right,” Sam says.

“Feel free to check the archived logs, too,” Lee says, gesturing to the shelves on the next room as he stands. “Er, except for the ones with the red spines; those are classified.”

Sam blinks. “All this time, I’ve had access to top-secret military intelligence and I never knew it?”

Lee shakes his head, grinning. “Well, guess it’s a good thing you’re not a cylon.”

Sam laughs. “Oh man, if I were, I’m totally doing it wrong. Marrying one ranking member of the military makes sense, but _three?_ Kinda overkill, isn’t it?”

“Little bit, yeah,” Lee says, heading for the hatch, clearly reluctant to go. “You remember where the officers’ mess is, right?”

Sam tosses off a salute. “Even toasters gotta eat, right?”

“Shut up,” Lee says as he leaves, but Sam can see that he’s grinning all the way through the hatch.

When he’s gone, Sam looks around. “Guess I’m awake,” he says to the empty room, and gets up. _Meds and food first,_ he thinks, but grabs one of the logbooks on his way out anyway.

 

***

 

When Lee gets home, Sam greets him from where he's sitting cross-legged on the deck. The coffee table, part of the couch, and an impressive swath of rug around him are strewn with open books and loose sheets of notebook paper covered in messy handwriting. “I only understand, like, a third of this,” Sam says, looking completely adrift.

“Have you been doing this all day?” Lee asks, shucking off his jacket.

“...probably,” Sam admits. “I did eat.”

“We need to get you out of here,” Lee says. He goes to the bedroom closet and pulls out two pairs of sweats, throwing one towards Sam. “Come on, we’re going to the gym.”

“I’m supposed to rest,” Sam says, but he grabs the bundle of clothing anyway. Lee makes a mental note to get more clothes for him; he and Kara kept a couple of things here as a matter of course, but an extra pair of pants and two shirts is not going to be enough.

“You can spot me and walk the treadmill, I’m sure,” Lee replies. “And ask all the questions you need about…” He gestures down at the scattered mess on the deck, frowning, “...whatever.”

“Yeah, all right,” Sam says, and off they go.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

There are still moments of silence they don’t know how to fill, whole swaths of life experience they don’t share, a sense of loneliness, of waiting, of _absence_ lurking in the corners of everything they say and do. Still, they find ways to talk around it, to keep going, their unspoken goal always, always towards recovering the voices and the _people_ whose names they rarely mention.

It’s hardest in the mornings, waking tangled up in warmth, drowsy and only half-remembering. They’re used to each other from before, nights on New Caprica or shipside, but there’s no sleepy grumble from Kara, no bright greeting from Dee telling them to get a move on. So when one or the other wakes to realize that it’s just the two them, it’s not awkward so much as _melancholy_.

It’s a hell of a way to start the day, is all.

Still, once they’re up and moving, it’s better. Lee shows Sam where the exchange is, and he picks up some second hand gear that fits well enough. There aren’t many civvie clothes to choose from, but Sam comments, “Don’t mind blending in,” as he grabs a gray tee, some tanks, and a set of olive drab fatigues, jacket and trousers.

Evenings they spend in the gym, stepping it up once Sam’s cleared for regular activity. Or they focus on Sam’s military education, because he always seems to come up with more questions, both esoteric and basic alike. Lee never knows whether he’ll have to explain a raptor’s VTOL engines or how a military tribunal works, but at least it’s never _dull_. Whenever they stray into an area where Lee’s knowledge is a little spotty, he tells Sam who on board is an expert on the topic, and Sam tends to seek them out while Lee’s on duty, coming back with answers he shares over dinner.

One day, Lee comes home to finds their quarters empty, and he ends up spending two hours updating his duty logs before he registers that Sam’s still not home and Lee hasn’t the faintest idea where he went. He goes looking, only to find Sam underneath a Viper in a grease-stained coverall as Laird explains how avionics systems work.

“Hey,” Lee says, kicking Sam’s boot. “Funny seeing you here.”

“Oh hey,” Sam says, scooting out from under the chassis and almost hitting his head on the wing.

Laird snorts at that. “Watch yourself, I knocked myself into the next week, once. I do _not_ recommend it.”

“Sorry, I lost track of time,” Sam says, grinning up at Lee.

“Oh, uh, I didn’t mean to keep him from dinner,” Laird says solicitously, getting to his feet and saluting. As usual, he adds, “...sir” slightly too late, but Lee’s learned not to let it bother him.

Sam chuckles, and Lee realizes what Laird means, how people must perceive them, always with their heads bowed over books, talking animatedly over meals in the mess, spending time together in the gym during off-hours. It’s easy to forget that they’re _married_ , even after so long.

“It’s all right,” he tells Laird. “He any help?”

Laird’s expression goes furtive, then squares his shoulders. “Not bad for a beginner,” he says. “Don’t need him on my crew, though. He can stay on the bench.”

Lee looks away, offering his hand to Sam to help him to his feet. “Don’t worry,” he tells Laird, “I can keep him out of your hair, if you want.” If this were Tyrol, he’d have joked about recruiting Sam, but he’s read the logs on Scylla; he knows better.

“He’s welcome anytime, so long as we don’t have birds in the chute,” Laird says.

“Thanks for the lesson,” Sam says, offering Laird his hand, and the chief looks surprised before taking it.

“No problem, Sam,” Laird replies, smile easy and unstrained.

Lee wonders how many friends Sam has found among the crew – not just willing tutors, but genuine friends, something that Sam’s casual charm and position outside the military structure affords. It’s a nice thought; better that than thinking of him rattling around their rooms with only books for company.

“Come on,” Sam says, bumping Lee’s shoulder with his own. “I’m suddenly _starving_.”

 

***

 

_Lee’s losing weight,_ Sam realizes one day as they change in the locker room after a gym session. It could be deliberate, but he’s also noticed Lee neglecting his food as they talk through dinner, and Lee’s pushing himself harder in the gym. It’s starting to show in his waist, in his shoulders, in the lines of his jaw and his thighs.

Lee catches him looking and twitches an eyebrow, saying nothing. Sam turns away.

“Are you… are you planning to stay here when we go back?” he asks. “Shipside, on Pegasus?” Because he suspects that Lee’s got the urge to suit up, hop back in a Viper or a Raptor to get his boots on the ground. Lee’s got a reckless streak buried behind all that dedication to honor and duty – it all depends on what he thinks his ‘duty’ is in any given situation.

“We don’t know for sure if we’re going back,” Lee admits quietly. “If there’s even…”

“You’re still sending Raptors to listen, though, right?”

“Oh, yeah, _”_ Lee says, with emphasis. “And I don’t plan to stop.”

“Good,” Sam says, pulling on his shirt. “That’s good.”

 

***

 

Lee dreams of Dee, of her standing next to him when the Cylons attack. Of her giving commands as his XO, steady and determined. Of them clinging together in the dark, anxious for those they left behind, finding solace in each other’s arms.

He dreams of her smile the morning they got married, laughing at the groundbreaking celebration as Lee tripped over his own feet while they danced, the incredulous, mirthful looks they’d traded when Garner had congratulated them and asked if any of them were changing their names. Lee dreams of Dee and Kara on a hillside staring up at the stars and making up new stories to go along with the new shapes in the sky.

Lee wakes, remembering the taste of her sweat on the back of his tongue, the first time she’d taken him to her bed. There is warmth beside him, and he curls into it, clutching at cloth in the dark. “...hey,” Sam murmurs, half-asleep, and Lee pulls away abruptly. “Hey, it’s okay,” Sam says, and Lee feels his breath stutter because _no_ , it’s _really not_.

“Lee,” Sam says, “Lee, hey, c’mon,” and his hand is on Lee’s arm, groping blindly.

“I’m sorry,” Lee chokes out. “I thought— nevermind.” He turns away, face burning, heart pounding, eyes stinging fiercely for a moment.

“It’s okay,” Sam says. “Do you want— can I—?” His hand finds Lee’s shoulder, smooths down to Lee’s hip, and _gods_ , if Lee were a weaker man he’d take this offered comfort; if he were reckless like Kara or trusting like Dee, he’d use Sam without a second thought.

“No,” Lee says, sighing, “No, I just… I just need a minute.”

“You sure?” Sam asks gently, his voice ghosting across the small hairs on the back of Lee’s neck. “I mean… if you’re not into guys, that’s fine, but you never really seemed bothered before.” Which is true enough; they may not have been directly _involved_ in prior encounters, but neither had Lee avoided him.

“It’s not that,” Lee says, “I’m just… selective.” Then he curses himself for how it sounds, except Sam huffs out a small laugh that sends a shiver down Lee’s neck.

“No, I get it. Before everything went to shit, I was pretty… indiscriminate. Had a reputation, got myself into trouble a few times…” Lee snorts, vaguely recalling garish headlines on the glossy covers of gossip magazines; nothing too unsavory, no unwilling or underage partners, no violence, no drugs. Just quite a few high-profile hookups with the C-Bucs celebrity.

Lee snorts. “...oh, that’s _right_ ; I’m married to a tabloid star.”

Sam’s next laugh is quiet, but it trembles the bed. “Oh my gods, Lee. It’s worse than that – someone had video on me, didn’t you know?” There’s no shame in his voice, no outrage or betrayal, just rueful humor.

And Lee is grateful for the darkness, then, because it can hide his face, his burning ears, because he’d forgotten, hadn’t connected it with Kara’s rescued resistance fighter, but he remembers now. Remembers watching it, one night, one video out of the countless he’s seen over the years, the kind he’d queued up when he had nothing else to do, or needed something to help him along when his dick was hard and his skin itched and fleeting memory wasn’t enough.

Sam’s still talking, and his hand’s still on Lee’s hip, broad and solid and warm. Not pushing, just _there_. “...but when the Cylons showed up, I got too busy, then I got... _selective_ , as you put it. Sue-Shaun used to joke that the end of the world was a hell of a time to start getting picky, but when I met Kara, something clicked, you know?”

“Yeah,” Lee breathes. “She has that effect, doesn’t she?”

_I double-dog dare you._

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “I sometimes miss it, though, you know? When all I had to worry about was making it to the finals, not busting my knee or my arm between seasons… and man, I _do_ miss the parties.”

Lee shakes his head. “That would be more Kara’s arena than mine.”

“She told me a couple Academy stories that say you’re a liar,” Sam says.

“We were in different classes,” Lee protests.

“She had her sources,” Sam says. “Tell me you don’t miss it, the simpler worries, the freedom of being young and stupid and thinking that ‘the end of the world’ was just hyperbole.”

“...yeah, maybe,” Lee says, but he wouldn’t trade who he is now for who he was then, either. He sure as hell may not have all his shit together, but at least he _knows_ it.

“...you want to know what I really miss, right now?” Sam says, his voice dropping to a murmur, intimate and close.

“What?” Lee asks, wariness overcome with a hint of that youthful recklessness, of which he’d allowed himself so little before, expectations and duty and the now-shattered promise of the future having been constant complications. Sam’s voice holds some of that unfettered promise, same as Kara’s laugh always had, and Dee’s bright eyes.

“I miss giving head,” Sam answers, and Lee sucks in a sharp breath, his dick rousing again, his pulse picking up. “Just… let me talk, you can tell me to shut up and I will, but all I want to do is talk. Can I—?”

“...all right,” Lee says, tongue thick behind his teeth.

“I miss giving head,” Sam says again, “Pussy’s great, but I haven’t _had_ to miss that, lately.” To which Lee can attest; he has a sudden vivid sense-memory of Sam’s tongue licking past his fingers and into Dee, her voice going high and desperate. “I miss the weight of a cock on my lips, pushing back against the top of my throat…” Lee bites the inside of his cheek, but that doesn’t keep him from letting out a ragged exhale, sharp and loud in the dark. “I miss the _taste_ of it, Lee, have you ever—?”

“Yeah,” Lee says. _Not in years_ , he wants to say, and he hadn’t minded it then, but neither did he enjoy it as much as Sam seems to.

“I liked it best on my knees,” Sam says, and Lee’s so hard he’s _aching_ , now. “Looking up at my partner, feeling their legs tremble as they tried to keep themselves upright. The muscles in their thighs flexing under my hands as I sucked them off.” Lee shifts his hips, and feels Sam close behind him, just as hard but keeping his distance. “You can— Lee, whatever you want,” Sam says. As if he’d needed permission, Lee slides his palm down past the waistline of his briefs to take himself in hand, skin against skin a shocking, blessed friction that startles a moan from his lungs.

“C’mon,” Lee says, and presses back into Sam’s solid heat. “Keep talking.” And with an answering groan, Sam pushes forward, hand gripping Lee’s hip and his dick grinding against Lee’s ass.

“I— I—” Sam stutters, breathless. “I was good, Lee, I was so good at it. Slow and careful, quick and dirty, I was _good_. And I… I could get off on it, just— just from the feel of someone’s hands in my hair, the sound of their voice as I took them deep, or pressed my tongue against the right place, or…” His voice falters, and he takes a couple of hitching breaths, hips rolling in a steady rhythm.

Lee remembers the video, wondering if he should feel guilty when the man himself is narrating the action in his ear. Sam, on his knees, hands scrabbling at his partner’s fly, mouth greedy and slick, tongue curling obscenely before he’d smiled up at his partner and—

“Sometimes, when I found the right angle, I’d pull on their hips, let them know they could move, drive right into my mouth,” Sam’s saying, and Lee shudders, his dick leaking, letting him know he’s close. “It made my voice hoarse for hours and sometimes my mouth felt bruised and raw, after, but gods, Lee… _Lee_ , it was so good. I’d like— I’d like to show you sometime, if you’ll let me. Would you— would you let me, Lee?”

And it’s too much, Sam’s voice in his ear and his body flush against Lee’s back, and the feel of his own hand, and the mental image of Sam’s mouth hollowing around his dick and— “Frak,” Lee grits out, squeezing his eyes shut so hard he sees stars. “Oh _frak_ , Sam,” he pants, letting go, and spills hot and thick over his hand.

Behind him, he feels Sam’s hips thrust twice, three times or maybe five again in an uneven staccato before he feels a pulsing warmth between them, soaking through the thin fabric still separating them. “Gods, Lee,” Sam pants, settling his forehead against the back of Lee’s neck, the first real skin to skin contact they’ve had this whole time. His hand clenches and unclenches lazily on Lee’s hip.

Lee catches his breath, head spinning in the dark. His body is lax and content, but his mind is a jumble. “You know,” he says eventually. “Now that you mention it, I think I do remember that video.”

Sam laughs so hard the whole bed shakes with it.

 

***

 

Sam wakes up alone, which isn’t unusual, but he remembers last night and wishes he’d gotten up with Lee, had a chance to talk. Still, they’ll see each other later; there’s time enough. He heads to the showers, runs into some pilots, and they rope him into a pyramid set with predictable and good-natured taunts.

He switches teams halfway through, ’cause the pilots have aim and the deck crew are _fast_ , but neither know the game the way he does. He can read their moves like they’re tattooed on their faces, and it’s just unfair. Not to mention, there’s a weird vibe among the cliques, no matter how casual the game, that he’s always on the outside of, some odd strain of competitiveness that speaks of longstanding tension he can’t quite parse but dodges when he can.

Privately, he agrees with the deck crew on at least one thing: the CAG, Taylor, is a complete ass. He tries to imagine how Lee can stand working with him, and fails miserably.

The game’s just breaking up when Thumper nudges Sam with her elbow. “Wanna grab a bite after this?”

“Yeah, sure,” Sam says, grabbing a towel from a bench. “It’s lunchtime somewhere.”

She laughs, and it reminds him of Dee. Someone else mutters behind them, something Sam can’t quite catch, and she spins to smack them upside the head. “Shut it,” she says. “It’s not like that.” But there’s a tint to her cheeks, and then Sam _gets it_.

“You do know I’m married, right?” he asks when they’re alone in the hallway.

She shrugs. “Doesn’t bother me, it’s one of those old group things, isn’t it? People can do whatever.”

“That’s not—” he says, then pauses as a pair of marines go past on patrol. “That’s not exactly how it works.”

Thumper frowns. “Then how does it work?”

He ducks his head, mouth twisting in a wry grin. “You know, a month ago I’d’ve had an answer for you.” She looks confused, so he tries to find words anyway. “It’s probably different for each group. But I can tell you, it’s complicated enough with just the four of us. We’re not _open_.”

“Well, shit,” she says.

“Nothing says I can’t have lunch with a friend, though,” he says, flashing her a sidelong smile.

“Yeah, all right,” she says. “You won’t tell the Commander I made a move on his man?”

“Only if you tell me all the good gossip about his first few weeks running the Beast. I need some dirt on the guy, he seems like teflon when he’s in his blues.”

She smothers a snicker. “Well hold onto your butt, pal, ’cause you have a _deal_.”

 

***

 

Lee doesn’t expect Sam to find him, but he’s not exactly surprised when he hears the hatch open and footsteps on the walkway behind him. “Hope I’m not interrupting you,” Sam says quietly, leaning on the rail a hair’s breadth away. Close enough that Lee’s skin prickles, but not exactly touching.

Lee doesn’t look up. “...nah,” he says. “It’s okay.”

There’s a moment of quiet, then Sam says, “I thought you were in the CIC, but a little birdie told me that you don’t have a shift today.” Lee drops his head, nods down at his boots. There’s no real ‘off-duty’ for any ship’s captain, let alone a battlestar commander, but the CIC is covered for today, and things are quiet. “If you were trying to avoid me, I can go.”

“It’s not that,” Lee says, though it’s partially untrue. “I just… needed a reminder. Last night, I…” He folds his hands, threading his fingers together and clutching tight, making an anchor. “I let myself forget, just for a little while, and I can’t…”

Sam doesn’t respond for a long time. “We’ll get them back,” he says finally. “And when we do, I’ll let them be the ones kicking your ass for being a _frakking moron_.” Lee looks up at him finally, taken aback at the sudden heat in the other man’s voice. “What, you think they’d resent us for that? Think about it, Lee, everything we do up here is about getting back to them – and everything they’re doing down there, right now, is probably about getting back to us. Should we get pissed off at them if _they_ sleep together in that shitty mudhole? Should we resent it if, for _one minute_ , they stop feeling _totally_ miserable before they get back up and fight?”

Lee hadn’t thought about it that way. He hopes that, whatever is happening on New Caprica, Dee and Kara are together, that neither of them are alone. However they define that, he doesn’t care – he wants it for them with an ache he can feel down to the very marrow of his bones.

He looks away again, down at Kara’s Viper, gathering dust in a corner of this remote repair bay. “...yeah, all right,” he says. “I see your point.”

“You gonna stop brooding now?” Lee grimaces at this, but nods. “Good, ‘cause Thumper doesn’t believe I can shoot worth a damn, and I think you’ll want to be there when I prove her wrong.”

Lee lets himself smile a little. “...what’d you bet?”

Sam leans into his arm and drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “You probably don’t want to know… But if I lose, you’ll have to deal with some _seriously_ awkward questions.”

“Oh Lords, don’t tell me,” Lee groans, “But sure, I’ll go.”

“Damn right you will,” Sam says, straightening up, pulling away. “And if you want, we can talk more later.” Lee catches up just as Sam goes through the hatch, turning to shoot him an amused glance over his shoulder, heavy with promise. “Or… I can talk and you can listen, whatever works for you.”

Lee almost trips over the edge of the hatch.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

Once a week, the pilots have a shooting tournament. According to Thumper, it had started off informal, the usual one-upmanship among soldiers with little else to do, but with some encouragement from the former XO, it had grown into a regular tradition. _Esprit de corps,_ she’d told him, wiggling her fingers with a roll of her eyes.

Sam’s not really interested in proving anything, despite stepping up to Thumper’s challenge and matching her boasts with his own – only _slightly_ exaggerated – anecdotes from Caprica. It’s more that he’s feeling restless. It’s been years since he’s stayed in one place for so long without a sky overhead, work to do.

He never used to miss the smell of cordite, the satisfaction of sending bullets through a target. He’s not sure he misses it _now_ , exactly, but the prospect does hold a certain appeal.

There’s a raucous chorus of cheerful heckling that rises at Sam’s entrance. Thumper is near the door with her friends, a handful of pilots whose greetings end abruptly in brisk salutes when they spot Lee behind Sam. “At ease,” Lee says amiably, taking off his jacket with pointed care and hanging it over one of the partitions. He seems to catch their guarded exchange of glances and lifts his eyebrows, smiling wide. “What, you think I’d miss Sam taking you to school?”

“Well, it’s just that we’ve only seen you here on inspections, sir,” Thumper says, unwinding to mirror Sam’s relaxed posture.

Hex follows her lead, flashing his own grin while adding, “...but if you don’t mind watching your husband get humiliated, sir, then by all means...”

“All right, all right,” Lee says, holding up one hand and then pointing to each pilot in order. “Let’s see... Narcho, Thumper, Wally, and Hex, right?” They nod. “So how about for the duration, we stick to callsigns, deal?”

Thumper flicks a glance at Sam, who gives a slight nod, and then she beams with her usual insouciance. “Fair enough,” she says, “but we’ve got a rule here: you show, you shoot. Hope you’re not rusty, _Apollo._ ”

Lee’s whole face lights up. “I thought you’d never ask.”

 

***

 

It only takes about half an hour for Sam to see that Lee’s missed this, despite having willingly shouldered the burden of command. Being surrounded by comrades, chatting aimlessly, passing a flask, and trading jokes laced with slang and jargon and occasional profanity. He wonders if Lee notices that half the room leans in when he talks, instinctive rather than deferential.

The contrast when Taylor arrives is marked, the laughter more hollow, the pilots’ gestures more controlled. The casual contest becomes more focused, and Sam can feel an empathetic response tightening his own posture whenever he takes his stance at the firing line.

Still, he acquits himself well enough, beating Thumper by a single round though Hex wipes the floor with him shortly after. He collects a nice bundle of credits and random sundries from betting on Thumper when she goes up against Narcho. While he’s counting his winnings, he enjoys seeing Apollo lose to Wally by a slim but respectable margin, as much for the competent, easy stance that shows off Lee’s shoulders as for seeing an Adama lose at _something_.

Taking advantage of his distraction, Taylor claps Sam a little harder than necessary on the shoulder, shooting him a shark-sharp smile. “Up for another round, civvie?” he asks.

Sam doesn’t hesitate. “Sure thing,” he says. “Best out of three?”

“Deal,” Taylor says, and it’s then that Sam notices that they’ve become the main attraction. Hard on the heels is the realization that it’s bad form for Stinger to antagonize his commander, but showing up the commander’s husband in this setting is fair game. Petty, but fair.

Lee must sense that something’s up, because he keeps close to the others while Sam and Taylor set up. “What _did_ you lose to Sam, anyway?” he asks Thumper.

Thumper glances at Sam, who shrugs. “...he wanted me to take him out in a Raptor,” she says. Lee’s eyebrows shoot up. “I was gonna get clearance!”

“You know fuel’s rationed,” Taylor says over his shoulder.

“He can tag along on a scheduled run,” Lee points out. “Won’t be too much extra.” He hands them both a set of three rolled-up paper targets, and Sam clips one to his pulley. He catches the sidelong look Taylor shoots him, but studiously ignores it.

When the shooting starts, Sam tunes everything out, focusing only on the silhouette of the cylon centurion. The shape is almost too familiar, seen so often silhouetted against the sky or emerging from the smoke of an explosion, always preceding the cries of comrades cut down in the Caprican dirt.

He shakes off the memories, studiously avoids thoughts of what must be happening on New Caprica, and shoots.

His clip goes empty, and he switches targets, passing the perforated one back for counting while he hangs another and reloads. He doesn’t even pay attention to Taylor’s shots, or the reactions of the pilots as each round ends, encouragement and disappointment depending on where each had placed their credits.

A roar goes up when he runs dry the third time, and he turns to see Stinger’s frown.

“Guess you’re good for _three_ things, then,” Taylor says, smile too fixed to hide the barb in the joke. “Pyramid, marksmanship, and—”

“ _Stinger,_ ” Lee interrupts mildly, using the man’s callsign instead of name or rank. He keeps his gaze locked on Sam, though, and then very deliberately leans back against the wall, crossing his arms.

Sam gets it, then. If this escalates, if Taylor keeps running his mouth, Lee was would be within his rights to reprimand him, but it would undo the work he’s done tonight, making a space where his crew could lower their guards around him. It would also be another barrier between Sam and the crew, greater than the one between ‘military’ and ‘civilian.’ After all, a civilian might be able to take the occasional ribbing, but crossing the spouse of an overprotective officer was a potential career killer.

And it would make it look like Sam couldn’t handle himself, to boot.

Sam looks sidelong at Taylor, busying himself with reloading his empty magazines. “Sounds like that’s two more than you, flyboy,” he replies, matching Taylor’s smile. “But that _would_ explain why you’re trying so hard to get my attention.” He steps away, turning as if to grab a cleaning kit.

The move is calculated; it means that when Taylor swings at him, neither of them will slam into the stalls.

 

***

 

“For the record, when I let you fight your own battles,” Lee says, opening the hatch to their room, “I don’t actually expect you to start an actual _brawl,_ all right?”

“Taylor was drunk,” Sam says, following him and closing it again. “And spoiling for a fight, too. From what I hear, he’s never been happy about you getting command. I think I’m just in the crease, not his actual target. Dee got some shit at first, too.”

This hits Lee like a physical blow. “No she didn’t.”

Sam shrugs, unloading his ill-gotten gains from his jacket pockets, credits and a toothbrush and a half-empty, much-battered packet of cigarettes skidding across the table. “Not that she told you; she took care of it on her own. I’m not sure how – all Hex would tell me was that she’s ‘surprisingly sneaky’.”

Lee sighs. There’s no way his career will ever be disentangled from his father’s influence now, for all that he’d tried to get distance before the attack on the Colonies. “I thought I’d handled all that resentment,” he mutters. “Proved that I—”

“Hey,” Sam interrupts. “You _have_ – you might not see it, but I do. The only holdouts were apparently the old Admiral’s favorites, and that’s more about them losing their connection to the top than you having one.”

Sam seems to believe this, but Lee’s not sure if he’ll be able to. “If you say so.” He drops his gaze, landing on Sam’s bruised hands. “You should run some water over those,” he says, pulling off his open jacket and dropping onto the end of the couch, feeling drained.

Sam glances down, too. “Yeah, who knows what I might get from Taylor, right?” he asks aloud, surprising a snort of laughter from Lee.

 

***

 

He comes back to find that Lee’s practically dozed off on the couch, eyes closed, still mostly dressed. He’s going to get a helluva crick in his neck, with his head at that angle. Sam skirts the table to bump his knee against Lee’s leg. “Hey, c’mon, bed’s over there,” he says.

Lee lifts his head abruptly, blinking blearily. “Not supposed to sleep,” he says. “Supposed to _talk._ ”

It takes Sam a second to catch up. He smiles reassurance. “I’ll take a rain check,” he says.

“But—” Lee says, then frowns, clearly unsure how to continue.

“See? Not tonight,” Sam says, adding, “No rush,” and meaning it. Lee’s a steady presence in his reshaped routine, replacing the stilted cordiality they’d established before with something more genuine. Pushing for more might be stretching what meagre luck they seem to have left, and gods, Sam _really_ doesn’t want to go back to what they had before.

He offers Lee a hand, and Lee takes it in a wrestling grip, using it to hoist himself up – and in, half a step closer than necessary.

“No rush,” Lee echoes in a murmur, leaning forward to brush Sam’s mouth with his own as he adds, “just tired of _waiting._ ” Their lips catch, cling, part, and Sam gusts a sigh before chasing that retreating pressure. He ups the ante, nudging Lee’s mouth open, licking his way in. Lee yields for a long moment, smooth and slick and easy.

Then Lee pulls away, and the lazy challenge in his regard gives Sam incentive to reconsider his stance on _rushing Lee._ He takes a deep, unsteady breath.

“...are you sure—?” he tries, and Lee’s face breaks open, wide-eyed and guileless.

“No,” Lee admits, his voice light in a way Sam’s never heard it. “I’m not sure of a single frakking thing in my life, but you know what? Right here, right now, I don’t _need_ to be. I don’t need to endlessly second-guess what I’m doing. All I need,” he continues, voice dropping as he shifts forward again, “...is to know if you were bluffing, last night.”

Sam kinda feels like Kara and Dee should have _warned_ him about this. Getting caught in Lee Adama’s crosshairs sends a quake through Sam’s joints, and he’s half tempted to drop to his knees right here and—

“Bed,” he says, grabbing Lee’s tanks in his fists and pulling, the fabric rough against his scraped knuckles. He gets another kiss in, edged with teeth and made sloppy by the laugh that bubbles up from Lee’s chest before it curls his lips. When they part, Sam turns and shoves Lee towards the bed; Lee goes along without complaint, stripping his tanks off with a motion that seems deliberately calculated to show off the lines of his shoulders, his arms, his back.

Lee still instinctively ducks when he drops to sit on the edge of the mattress, long habit from living out of a cramped pilot’s rack. Sam chuckles when he sees it, and Lee looks up quizzically from where he’s kicking off his boots. He gets another kiss in answer, Sam bending over him, pressing him backwards. Lee drops to one elbow, his other hand splaying over Sam’s jaw, pulling him closer and angling them both so that the kiss gets a little deeper, dirtier.

“Mmn,” Lee mumbles, and Sam pulls back.

“All right?” he asks.

“Yeah, it’s—” Lee shakes his head, touching the corner of his mouth. “You didn’t shave.”

“...should I?” Sam asks, really _really_ hoping that the answer’s no.

Lee curls up, stomach flexing as he grabs the fabric of Sam’s shirt at the waist. “No, I just _forgot._ ” He drags Sam close again. “Get back here,” he says, and sets about proving how little it bothers him.

 

***

 

Multitasking doesn’t seem to be Sam’s strong suit. It’s definitely flattering that Sam keeps getting distracted, fingertips gently stroking the scar on Lee’s shoulder, tracing the ink on his chest, leaning into the hand Lee smooths down his side, stilling for long moments as their kisses turn more thorough, more intent. Lee plants one foot on the mattress and rolls his pelvis up, grinding his dick into Sam’s belly, feeling Sam’s erection bump against his hip.

“Frak,” Sam says in a low voice.

“Yeah, that _would_ be the idea,” Lee says. Sam gets the hint, giving a lopsided smile as he pulls back, hands busy on the fastening to Lee’s trousers. Anticipation makes Lee’s breath come short; he lets his head fall back as his lungs work unsteadily.

The hot slide of Sam’s mouth against his skin is not exactly a surprise. Still, Lee twitches at the careful press of teeth at his waist, the tickle of Sam’s tongue tracing the crease of his hip where his pants have ridden down. Fabric gives way beneath deft fingers, and then Lee bites back a groan as Sam mouths at his erection through his briefs, lips shaping around the head, light suction a teasing prelude.

_Breathing’s overrated anyway_ , Lee thinks, one hand seeking an anchor on Sam’s shoulder and the other pressing backwards against his mouth, muffling the sounds that Sam slowly, surely begins to wring from him.

 

***

 

The tentative grip that Lee has in Sam’s hair gets harder, more insistent. Sam utters a groan in the back of his throat, sucking harder, adding extra drag with his tongue.

“Gods,” Lee gasps, sounding shocked, sounding like he’s cracking, just about to shatter. “Gods, Sam, stop, Sam, _Sam_ —” Sam lets go promptly – if reluctantly – with a last lewd flick against the end, looking up at Lee with veiled impatience. Whatever Lee sees in Sam’s expression, it makes his voice go rough and desperate. “C’mere,” he says, tugging on Sam’s hair again.

“I wanted— It’s totally fine if you—” Sam says.

“Get _up_ here,” Lee interrupts, scrunching down as if he’s trying to meet Sam halfway. Their legs tangle with the trousers Sam had only yanked down just enough for access, and they spend several moments kicking them away. When they’re done, Sam leans up for a kiss that Lee grants, shoulders shaking with silent mirth.

“Don’t start,” Sam says, feeling an answering laugh building in his own throat.

“I’ve done this before, I swear,” Lee says, amusement trembling in his voice now, too.

“Talk’s cheap, flyboy,” Sam retorts, beaming brash challenge right up until Lee grinds his cock against Sam’s, leaving a spit-slick trail along his belly. “ _—frak_ ,” he says, the intensity of even that glancing friction overwhelming after feeling Lee, hearing him, _tasting_ him...

“Yeah, that’s it,” Lee is saying now, shoving his temple up against Sam’s cheek, shoulders rolling in Sam’s grasp. “Yeah, c’mon.” Lee’s hand creeps down to wrap around Sam’s dick, then his own, until they’re both pushing into the tight hot space between Lee’s palm and groin, friction eased by saliva, sweat, and pre-come.

Sam curls his spine, lifts Lee’s chin up with forefinger and thumb, the webbing catching against the soft place behind his chin. The kiss is clumsy, fragmented, more breath than contact. Lee shudders, head tipping back, and Sam chases him, tasting the tremble of Lee’s voice as he comes apart.

Seeing Lee’s expression as he rides out his high, feeling the sticky heat bloom between their bodies, hearing Lee’s uneven gasps as he tries to catch his breath, and Sam is gone, _gone._ His mind goes to that bright, blank, _perfect_ place just for an instant, but it’s _there_.

“I thought we were done with the laughing,” Lee says wryly, one hand lax at Sam’s nape and the other resting on his lower back.

“Sorry,” Sam says, rolling vaguely sideways. They’re at a weird angle on the bed, but he doesn’t want to move any more. He didn’t know he’d been laughing again, and while the urge has passed, he can still feel elation thrumming through his bones.

“No, you’re not,” Lee says, rolling his head to look at Sam.

“Yeah, no, I’m really not,” Sam says, grinning lazily.

Lee leans in, kisses Sam with careful emphasis. “Yeah, me either,” he murmurs. And before Sam can react, he’s pulling away, leaving the bed, and disappearing around the corner.

 

***

 

In the head, Lee grabs a threadbare washcloth and turns on the tap to dampen it, cleaning himself up absent-mindedly, trying to pinpoint why his chest feels tight and his stomach is in knots.

It had been the tags that had done it. Lee’s so used to being around military personnel by now that the metallic jangle of dog tags knocking against one another was just one of many background noises, like the hum of the light fixtures or the hiss of the air vents. Sam’s a civvie, so he doesn’t have his own set, but when Lee had bent over him, there had been that familiar, muffled clink anyway.

Sam’s not wearing his own tags on a rattling chain, but a single one of Kara’s on a dark knotted cord.

Lee’s not bothered by the fact that Sam and Kara have their own connection; he and Kara have their own links of grief and guilt and affection and devotion. He and Dee share a philosophy, a similar understanding of ideals like duty and honor. Dee and Sam are still new to each other, but he’s seen them exchange wry grins when he and Kara are trading verbal barbs, seen them negotiating space without words in a way he can’t quite translate, so they’re not _nothing_ even if they aren’t something he can label. Comrades, maybe, or partners.

And they all have the rings on their hands, plus the matching ink under their skin: on Kara and Dee’s spines, on Sam’s arm, on Lee’s chest.

But split tags carry a connotation, a resonance during wartime that doesn’t just mean love. It means loss, and separation, and promises not to stick together but to always find their way back despite inevitable estrangement. Vows frequently broken until those who made them were finally reunited in death.

Too often, he’s seen widows and widowers – or those close enough to count as same despite lack of formal recognition – wearing single tags like that. Seeing them on Sam had, just for a moment, made Lee feel like an interloper, like he’d been intruding on _Kara’s_ space. Like he’d been dishonoring her memory.

Remembering what Sam had said, Lee quashes the guilt that churns in his gut, and finds chilly fear beneath. It hadn’t been a lie: he’s not sorry that he and Sam have… whatever this is.

He’s afraid that this is all they’ll have left of their marriage besides memories of New Caprica and ghosts in their bed.

Lee rinses the washcloth and wrings it out, avoiding his own reflection. So he doesn’t see Sam behind him until he turns around. “Oh,” he says, uselessly. He half expects Sam to make a joke about getting lost, but Sam’s gaze is solemn, halfway to sympathetic.

“You all right?” Sam asks. He’s pulled on a pair of sweatpants, but his torso is bare, so Lee can see the tag, lying against his skin just under his collarbone.

“Yeah,” Lee says, “it’s only—” He gives into the impulse and taps middle and forefinger against the small metal shape; it’s warm from Sam’s body and has some corrosion at one corner. “There’s no ‘just us,’ is there? There are always echoes. I feel like I’m not being fair to you.”

“Kara told me about Zak, you know,” Sam says, and hearing _Sam_ say his brother’s name hurts like finding shrapnel still embedded between his ribs. “And there’s her mom, and Dee’s dad, and if you try to tell me the shadow of Admiral Adama doesn’t reach far enough to affect your relationships, I’ll call you a liar. It’s never just us, yeah, but it was never gonna be. Like you said, there’s always echoes.”

Sam’s talked about Caprica, but Lee’s always looked at those stories in the abstract. “...we wouldn’t be here without them, would we?” he murmurs aloud, feeling his earlier exhaustion creeping back inexorably. He closes his hand around Kara’s tag and pulls, kissing Sam carefully, feeling brittle, vertiginous from having to lean up instead of down. “C’mon, let’s go back to bed.”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

The hatch doesn’t slam, exactly, but it’s the wrong time of day for Sam to hear it creak open. Between that and some sixth sense of self-preservation, Sam is already turning away from the map of New Caprica he’s annotating before Lee is done with his first indrawn breath. “What the frak, Sam? When were you planning to tell me about this – when you moved to Galactica?” He’s brandishing some familiar-looking forms in one hand.

Sam sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “I wasn’t— wait, why would I move to Galactica?”

“Because you sure as hell can’t train under Taylor, and I can’t very well transfer him just so my husband can stick close for pilot training, can I? When did you even take the aptitude tests— these have _Helo’s_ signature on them. How—”

“Thumper owed me a ride, so I hopped on her Raptor when she was doing a run to the flagship.” He’d had a long and nerve-wracking talk with the Admiral before he’d gone to see Helo, but he knows better than to mention that to Lee. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to tell you first before the results came back. For what it’s worth, I haven’t decided whether to sign them or not. I just wanted to know what my options were… did you say pilot training?”

Lee looks down at the paperwork half-crumpled in his hand. “Yeah, you qualified to be a pilot. If that’s what you want.” He huffs a laugh. “Your scores are pretty impressive, actually. Not surprising, though, with your experience and all that studying you’ve been doing the last few weeks. You practically got half the ship to tutor you; I can’t believe I didn’t put it together before.” He drops into a chair, pushing the paperwork across the coffee table towards Sam.

“That wasn’t—” Sam starts, then stops, realizing that Lee’s right. This may not have been consciously planned, but it was pretty much bound to happen eventually. The Admiral had made it clear that he had no place for civilians on a rescue op, and Sam’s done looking for busywork. He wants to do something useful, and if he’d qualified for jarhead, he’d have strapped on that armor without a qualm. “...pilot, huh,” he says aloud.

“Yeah, you’ll get experience with both Raptors and Vipers if you don’t wash out… and trust me, Kat _will_ look for any reason to wash you out, just on principle. Bet you can guess who taught her the ropes.” They trade fleeting, knowing smiles. “Of course that’s after basic with… Gods, probably Helo, good luck with _that_.”

“He’s a good guy, though, we’ve hung out a few times, and Kara’s told me—”

Lee shakes his head. “Forget all that. The Karl who’s Kara’s buddy and Sharon’s husband is a totally different guy than the Helo who whips cadets into shape. That’s one reason he and Starbuck get along, they’re both complete sadists towards rooks.”

Sam accepts this with a nod. He’d known trainers in the league as fierce as Helo sounds. It won’t be fun, going back to square one, but he’ll manage. “How long?”

“I’m not sure. It used to be months, with nonstop drills and classes and evals. We don’t have that luxury anymore, but I’m sure that Helo won’t let you move up if you can’t hack it. Taylor got it down to three weeks, last I checked. It’s an ugly three weeks, but it’s effective.”

Sam thinks about it. Three weeks on Galactica. It sounds like no time at all to pick up a whole new career, but also like an eternity before he’ll get to _do_ anything. “Three weeks in basic, then what?”

“One week learning Raptors, one for Vipers. They have similar controls but are built for different tasks, have different feels to how they move, so you’ll have to learn to adapt as needed. We used to have specialized pilots, one corps for each, but we’ve all had to be more flexible over the past couple of years…” Lee leans forward, elbows on his knees, expression intent. “If you’re really thinking about this, Sam, you need to know. This isn’t just a job. I used to think it could be – I’d only planned to serve the four years I owed, after the Fleet paid for college, but now it’s not about repaying some favor. It’s not work I get to shrug off when the clock runs out. It’s about service, and duty, and honor, and the survival of the human race, and there’s no way I can turn my back on that. And I can’t let you take the same oath without knowing you understand what it means.”

Sam’s eyebrows lift when Lee says ‘let,’ but he gets where Lee’s coming from. This is a dual-edged sword for Lee, like the inverse of marrying Dee and Kara. Of course, Lee’s dad is the Admiral of the Colonial Fleet. He’s probably so used to the military complicating his personal relationships that it’s second nature to him. But Lee’s perceptive, too; he understands that it’s not second nature to Sam, and he needs to know that Sam knows what he’s doing.

Sam doesn’t, really, but this wouldn't be the first time he’s made a promise and stuck to it despite the odds, and despite the whirlwind of unforeseeable complications life might throw into the mix. He can do it again. For Kara – and for Dee – he can do it again.

He could give the easy answer: _of course I do_. But instead, he says, “I think I do. But why don’t you explain it anyway.”

“...okay,” Lee says, gaze going distant. “Yeah, okay.” And then he takes a deep breath and starts talking. The first story he tells is about a ship called the _Olympic Carrier_.

It’s not the last.

 

***

 

Lee’s grateful, rattled and drained, when he gets called back to the CIC to oversee the day’s jump, coordinating with the rest of the Fleet and on hand to supervise any emergency response they might need. They’ve had some jump drift lately due to poor discipline, sure sign of fatigue and a drop in morale, and a collision’s the last thing they need now. If they don’t do something soon, things will only get worse at an accelerating rate.

The Admiral knows it, too, putting more pressure on the pilots during drills, running his officers ragged with endless worst-case scenarios to refine the rescue plan. The truth is, they need more skilled personnel.

Lee’s just not sure how happy he is about _Sam_ suiting up. It’s not that he doesn’t think Sam can do it, it’s that Lee doesn’t think he can watch it.

He tells himself it’s not about Zak, and it’s (mostly) true. It’s also about the look on Kara’s face when she’d spotted him on the flight deck, after everyone on Galactica thought he’d died defending Colonial One. It’s about how far he and his father had gone trying to get Kara back when she’d gotten shot down. It was about looking across his father’s bleeding body and seeing Dee pressing her lips to the old man’s knuckles. It was about the soul-crushing guilt he’d felt being unable to help Kara because he’d been dying in the vacuum of space, and how he feels sometimes, remembering Cally and Dee in cages on the Astral Queen.

He’s not afraid of losing Sam, he’s afraid of what this choice will do to Sam, to his easy smiles and his casual sprawl. Sam’s seen enough, more than enough on Caprica, and come through, sure, but wearing a Fleet uniform is different. It’s fighting for something bigger than survival, or revenge.

_It’s not enough to survive,_ his father had said once. _One has to be worthy of survival._ That’s probably the only thing they’ll ever agree on. It’s about defending humanity, not simply the remaining population of the human race. _Service_ , he’d told Sam earlier, _and duty, and honor._ It sounds so trite, but those words unpack into something much, much heavier than they seem.

Lee doesn’t know how Sam will change, when the full weight of the uniform settles in.

Not to mention, Kara and Dee will kill Lee if something happens to Sam. He’s not entirely sure Kara would appreciate Sam signing up in the first place, but Dee would understand, would respect his decision, same as she’d once wanted her own to be respected.

It comes as no surprise that Dee’s probably right, even when she’s not there.

 

***

 

_An ugly three weeks,_ Lee had told him. Sam doesn’t remember pyramid training being this rough, but then, the worst of that was ten years ago. It doesn’t help that he’s the only one Helo’s currently working with. There’s no one else frakking up to divert attention, no reason for Helo to let up on Sam for a minute.

What does help is picturing the other members of his family, younger and less world-weary, getting put through their paces at the same time. Imagining Kara’s commentary on his uniform, critical and salacious alike, how Dee would grin in cheerful challenge during hand-to-hand training, the way Lee’s forehead furrows when he’s trying to explain technical minutiae.

Come to think of it, Lee probably got as much shit in basic for being a Commander’s son as Sam’s getting now for being one’s husband. He bites back the retorts about Helo’s own choice of spouse, but it must show in his eyes at one point, because Helo doubles down and Sam doesn’t get more than an hour of sleep that night.

Sometimes Helo sends him to the kitchen… _galley_ , he means _galley_ , not kitchen. (That slip earns him another ten laps around the course set up in the hangar bay.) He scrubs dishes for three hours, and every time he’s caught slouching, a stack gets taken from the drying rack and put back on the other side to get re-cleaned. Then the plates get inspected, and he starts all over again on the ones deemed insufficiently spotless.

Other times, Helo lets Kat take over so the former can a full night’s sleep when Sam doesn’t. Sam prefers Kat, even when she’s making him polish boots with the same painstaking attention to detail. She has a capricious streak, as likely to make him run fifty-pound laundry bags all the way down the length of Galactica, each unwieldy and over-stuffed, as she is to make him disassemble and reassemble every kind of firearm they have aboard, or to deliver empty files to scattered points all across the ship to test his memory of the layout and the names and ranks of the crew.

At least it’s not boring.

There’s also a familiar angle to Kat’s smirk, a timbre in her voice when she shouts at him that remind him of Kara. Like a younger sister, maybe… or maybe not. Some of the things she shouts at him, _especially_ when Kara’s name comes up – like how hard Kara would be riding his ass right now and how lucky he is that he’s got Kat instead – have shades of something else. Resentment, hero-worship, the admiration of a prize pupil, the frustration of losing her mentor, maybe more. Sam’s too exhausted to really dwell on it.

Towards the end of the second week, Kat’s standing by Helo, and they’re timing Sam’s laps through the obstacle course. When he finishes ten, he comes to attention in front of them.

Kat and Helo squint at the stopwatch.

“Yeah, close enough,” she concludes at last, shrugging. “Come on, nugget, let’s find you a jock smock.” Helo beams, claps Sam on the back in congratulations as they leave, and that’s how Sam starts pilot training.

 

***

 

Lee doesn’t talk with his father much, but Commander Adama communicates with Admiral Adama at least twice daily and visits Galactica at least once a week for an in-person meeting. It doesn’t escape his attention that Sam sees his father more often than he does now, and he wishes them both the best with that bit of irony.

So he’s thrown the first time his father adds, “...and Helo tells me that Sam’s doing fine,” at the end of one routine call. Before he can respond, his father’s already signed off.

After that, his father throws in sporadic updates, like “I hear he’s a natural tactician,” or “his points are always crooked,” or “Kat’s running out of deck for him to mop,” with a low undercurrent of amusement in his voice. Lee starts recovering well enough to thank him, but his father usually ends the call without acknowledging it, like he’s already said enough for one day.

(Helo never sends him updates, nor Kat. It’s best for them to keep things as by-the-book as possible at this point, to avoid any accusations of impropriety. Things are tangled enough without starting off Sam’s military career on the wrong foot, too.)

“I’ll have this maintenance report couriered over first thing tomorrow,” Lee says, on an early evening call.

“You can bring it yourself, save the trip,” his father says. “It can wait until the afternoon.”

“Sure thing,” Lee says on autopilot before it clicks. “...tomorrow? afternoon?”

“When you come to see Anders,” his father says, like he’s reciting a foregone conclusion, “for his first flight.”

“...right, that’s tomorrow,” Lee says, covering. _Damn, that was quick,_ he thinks. He says aloud, “Yeah, absolutely. I’ll see you then.”

Not ten minutes later he gets another call. “Adama,” he answers, expecting Bishop. Instead, it’s Hoshi, patching Kat through.

“Hey, wanna see if your husband remembers where the landing gear switch is?” she says by way of invitation, and Lee laughs out loud.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he tells her. “Oh, hey, I just thought of something…”

 

***

 

You never fly in a raptor alone, not if you can help it. A pilot should always have an ECO at their back, and Sam had trained for both roles, just in case.

A lot of his instructions have that at the end: _just in case._ Catastrophic scenario planning might once have seemed an abstract exercise, but now it carries the air of laughable insufficiency. Backups and contingencies and redundancies upon redundancies, and Sam’s about to climb in a viper alone for the first time, all in preparation to challenge a relentless, literally inhuman enemy.

His whole adult life, Sam’s faced critical moments of intense pressure, from exams to tryouts to finals. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t get nervous, though. He’s just more aware of it, catches it sooner, has learned how to offset it or use the nervous energy to his advantage. That’s what training does, after all – drill in everything you need to know so you can remember it even when you’re so strung with panic that you vibrate like a piano wire when the hammer comes down.

There’s no ceremony to send him off; the deck crew waves him to his bird and he’s halfway up the ladder before he notices the nameplate on the side. He freezes, staring at it, his chest going tight.

_CPT KARA THRACE,_ it says, and on the next line: _“STARBUCK”_

“Problem, rook?” someone calls to him. Sam looks over to see Gonzo grinning up at him. “...I mean, if you don’t crash her, we can repaint that for you, but—”

Sam shakes his head. “Nah, no need to go to all that trouble on my account.” He hauls himself up and over, drops down into the cockpit, and hopes to hell Kara will forgive him for adjusting the seat back far enough to accommodate his height.

Once his collar’s sealed, his helmet’s on, and his air supply’s hooked up, Sam looks down at the checklist through the plastic window on his leg pocket, and continues his prep. “Okay, okay, okay,” he mutters, going down the lines as the canopy closes over him, the console comes to life around him. “Clear, up, armed, green,” he says, following his training and glad for the printed reminders as they tow him to the launch tube.

_Area clear, blast doors open, HUD on, NavTac active, flaps down, engines at 85…_ Sam braces for launch from muscle memory, gives the signal, and then, _there_ , he’s hurtling through the tube like a bullet, like he’s dropping down a well, the walls a blur around him until—

_When you exit the launch chute, it’s going to seem like you’ve stopped moving,_ Kat had told him during training. _You won’t be propelled by the mag cat anymore so you won’t feel any acceleration, you’ll be free of Galactica’s grav field, and space? Is_ really _big. There’s no horizon to orient yourself against, no real fixed landmarks because everything around you is floating, and all the stars are gonna look the same at first._

Sam’s hanging, a mote suspended in the black, the huge bulk of one of the passenger liners sliding along his peripheral vision like a whale surfacing beside a dinghy.

_But don’t forget, you’re still moving. Really, really fast._

It’s incredible. It’s… perfection. He doesn’t feel lost, or adrift, or alone. He feels _connected,_ the whole of creation exposed, millions of suns and galaxies and nebulae like pinpricks of light scattered across the rich blackness surrounding the Fleet in every direction.

_Galactica’s job is to orient itself to give you an optimal vector, but you’ll still need to keep an eye on your instruments; watch where you’re pointing, because by the time you spot something in front of you, you’ll already be on top of it._

A Viper drops down beside him, Kat sending him a little wave. “You should see the look on your face,” she says in his ear. “You done gawking, or do you need a minute?”

“I’m good,” Sam says, giving her a thumbs-up. “Let’s do this.”

It’s different from flying a Raptor, for all that the controls are mostly standardized. Raptors feel like trucks, wide and trundling, lifting up from the hangar deck, the cabin a solid presence around him, copilot or ECO always at hand. This is more like a motorcycle, maybe, though Sam’s never ridden one for any real comparison.

Soon enough, he’s weaving a careful path through the Fleet, paced by Kat’s Viper and shadowed by Gonzo and Redwing in a Raptor.

Just in case.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

Lee hears all the confirmations, but doesn’t believe Sam’s landed safely until he sees Kara’s bird dropping down on the lift, all in one piece. There’s a small cluster of people on the deck, other pilots and knuckledraggers, and Lee sees Helo coming down the ladder, the Admiral watching impassively from the gangway above them all.

A small wave of applause greets Sam when he hoists himself up out of the cockpit, grinning dazedly from ear to ear. He lifts his hand in acknowledgement before he descends, and Kat knocks her elbow into his when his feet hit the deck, saying something that Lee can’t hear. Someone passes Sam a flask and he takes a belt before passing it on.

“I guess it’s about time for these,” Helo says, reaching Sam’s side, one hand outstretched towards Sam’s chest. When he backs off again, a small golden diamond catches the light, glinting against the olive-bronze flight suit.

Sam’s got his wings.

More applause and a couple of cheers rise up, and Helo lifts his voice again. “All right, all right,” he says, “back to work now, celebrate later.” The crowd disperses good-naturedly with a few more congratulatory shoulder-claps along the way.

Sam spots Lee and gives Helo a salute before making his way across the deck. Lee meets him in the middle, chest full to bursting and his tongue tied with everything that he can’t find the words to articulate.

“...congratulations,” Lee blurts after a pause, catching himself before he gives into the impulse to fidget.

“Thanks.” Sam beams, pulling him into a hug without pause. Lee relaxes into it, glad to know what to do, before Sam moves back, shifts and. _Okay, we’re kissing now_ , Lee thinks. He’d have less difficulty appreciating Sam’s easy gestures if he knew what to expect, but he keeps getting caught flat-footed. To be fair, there’s no reason they shouldn’t show affection in public, but—

Someone whistles, and Sam breaks it off, laughing.

Lee finds himself grinning back, though the tips of his ears feel like they must be neon red. “What was that for?”

“Glad to see you,” Sam says. “And I have the sneaking suspicion that you’re the one responsible for my ride.”

“Oh, that old thing?” he says lightly. “It was just collecting dust in one of my hangar bays. So be careful, she’s an antique.”

Sam's expression is a little edged, a little wild, like he's still flying, loaded with live ammo. The heat in Lee's face creeps along his skin, nerves catching like dry tinder.

Lee looks around and decides that the middle of the hangar deck isn’t the best place for them, though the crew aren’t giving them more than cursory glances at this point. “You have anywhere to be?” he asks.

“Nah,” Sam says. “Helo told me to take a couple hours, report back to Kat at oh-four-hundred to go over gun camera footage.”

“So you have about… two and a half hours before they dissect your every mistake, then,” Lee says, moving towards the ladder.

Sam easily falls into step close beside him. “Oh, good. And here I thought flying Vipers was _fun_.”

“It is,” Lee says. “It’s also a lot of work, and terrifying, and exhausting…” He trails off as he ascends to the gangway. His father’s long gone. No surprise there.

“Do you miss it?” Sam asks when he catches up.

Lee shrugs. “Not really. Maybe a little. Some things I miss, some things I don’t. But then, technically, I can hop in one of Pegasus’ birds anytime I want if we’re not in combat. It’s just frowned upon, that’s all.” He heads aft without really thinking about it, then pauses. “...I have no idea where we’re going,” he admits.

“Don’t tell me you’re lost,” Sam says. Lee elbows him in the side.

“No. But I don’t have a… _place_ here, anymore.”

“Nobody’s using your old rack,” Sam points out, shoving off the wall and heading aft. Lee follows, towards the familiar territory of pilots’ quarters and rec rooms. “They offered it to me, but I—” Sam ducks his head, scratching through the short hair at the back of his neck.

Understanding clicks. “You’re in Kara’s bunk, aren’t you,” Lee says.

“Yeah,” Sam admits, then risks a glance at Lee. “Is that weird?”

“No,” Lee says. “She won’t let you hear the end of it, of course, but it’s just a bed. Her Viper, on the other hand – _that_ I know she’ll want back and make you pay for any new scratch you put on it.”

“A price I’m willing to pay,” Sam says, gaze going distant, and Lee thinks he’s going to say, _just to get her back_. Instead, Sam says, gesturing vaguely, “Flying a Viper is like…”

“...better than sex?” Lee says, offering the cliche with a smirk as they turn off at the next junction.

“I don’t know,” Sam says, something sly in his voice as he pauses in front of a hatch. “I mean, I haven’t had much to compare it with, in the past few weeks…”

This part of Galactica is mostly deserted, so Lee doesn’t feel self-conscious when he crowds Sam against the doorframe, tilting his head, feeling his pulse pick up. “Yeah, and whose fault was that?”

“You’re totally right, man, I’m sorry,” Sam says, sounding unrepentant. His hands land on Lee’s waist, his fingers hooking into Lee’s belt, tugging gently. Lee watches the curl of his mouth as he says, “I should probably make that up to you, huh.”

“Maybe,” Lee says noncommittally, leaning up. Sam welcomes his kiss with a pleased, low hum in the back of his throat. It's a rapid flood of sensation as Sam lets him in, drags him closer with one palm on his ass, pushing back so Lee can feel him half-hard through their uniforms.

They break apart after a minute. “Your bunk or mine, Commander?” Sam asks, grinning.

“Don’t,” Lee replies, unlocking the hatch and shoving Sam through it. “We don’t— Get out,” he tells the owner of the feet dangling from an upper bunk.

Costanza sits up, “Oh, hey Apollo—”

“Hey. _Out_ ,” Lee replies, friendly but firm.

Hotdog catches on, rolling his eyes and tossing his magazine aside before hopping down. “Give a guy a heads up next time, will ya?” he grumbles to Sam, but leaves quick enough, closing the hatch behind him.

Sam’s already stripped off the top half of his flight suit. “We don’t what?” he asks, propping one foot up to get at his boot laces.

 “No rank when we’re fighting, no rank when we’re frakking,” Lee explains, half distracted by the added tone in Sam’s arms, even as he’s working on the buttons of his own jacket. It’s a rule he and Dee came up with a while ago. Kara too often dismisses the chain of command regardless, but occasional jests aside, Lee knows he needs to be able to give orders without getting distracted when familiar voices respond with ‘yes, sir.’ He needs that line, razor-thin as it is.

“Sure,” Sam says, heading back to the hatch and opening it just far enough to hang his boots outside before closing it. “Though now I’m kinda curious, if that’s not your thing, what is?”

Lee looks up from undoing his belt, puzzled. “Who says I have a thing?”

“Everyone’s got a thing, Lee,” Sam says, coming over and pushes Lee’s hands away, pulling his tanks up and sliding his fingers just under the waistline of his pants. “You already know mine,” he murmurs, and bends to kiss Lee in a way that’s a _vivid_ reminder of his oral fixation.

They lose track of the conversation for a little while.

 

***

 

It's a trip, getting this close to Lee and not running into one of the man's many walls. Sam doesn't kid himself though, doesn't mistake this for anything more than what Lee's letting him have right now. He knows what it looks like, Lee really open, Lee really _there_.

The only person Sam’s seen Lee let his guard down for, let himself unwind and be vulnerable for, has been Dee. And the only person Lee's stuck his neck out for, risked everything for, is Kara. Sam’s not looking to compete with either.

Doesn't mean he doesn't want to wind Lee up a little, get under his skin and see what makes him tick.

It's stupid. It's Sam falling from a precipice and scrabbling for purchase on bare rock. He _knows_ it's pointless and futile. Doesn't mean the impulse isn't there.

The sex is good, though. It's close enough.

“ _Dee_ doesn't have a thing,” Lee's saying, and right now, all Sam wants is a way to shut him up, make him go inarticulate and breathless and desperate. He bites at the exposed line of Lee's neck, pushes his hand further into Lee’s pants.

Sam laughs. “Dee _so_ has a thing, haven’t you noticed how easy Kara gets her worked up?”

Lee shifts his weight so he can arch up into Sam’s grip, and the table skids an inch with a short grating scrape. “That’s just Kara,” he says, one hand in Sam’s hair and the other shoving at Sam’s tanks, bunching them up under his armpits. The edge of a thumbnail catches against one nipple, and Sam shudders, his cheek against Lee’s shoulder.

It’s true, Kara can drive anybody nuts without really trying. But, “No, Kara has a filthy mouth, and Dee’s into that.”

“Huh,” Lee says, “I’ll keep that in mind.” He pulls Sam up with a firm tug on his hair, gives him a heavy-lidded look like he can’t decide what he wants first, and seems to settle on a deep, urgent kiss. Sam tightens his grip, and Lee arches up into Sam’s hand, gasping, chest expanding, the long line of his torso flexing, and Sam needs to taste skin. Needs to bend down and take firm, inked flesh gently between his teeth and taste sweat and skin and heat beneath his tongue. Lee’s hand cups the back of his neck, not pushing so much as seeking an anchor while Sam leaves a weaving line of marks over his abdomen.

Sam pulls away to strip Lee’s pants and briefs down, gets them as far as his calves before Lee’s curling up, trying to help and _damn_ , they are _not_ good at this. When clothes aren’t an issue, it’s fine, they’re _great_ , but by the time Sam’s disentangled from his uniform tanks – why _two?_ Whose brilliant idea was _that?_ – he’s too restless to let Lee work on his pants, and shoves Lee back down with a forearm against his chest.

“ _Let me_ ,” he says roughly, needing to focus. Kara tends to take what she needs, bowl him over and if he’s lucky, leave him his hands free while she uses the rest of him. Dee’s greedy in a patient way, lets him take his time, as steady and methodical as he likes.

Lee’s _distracting_.

So Sam holds him down while he works him over, pins him with one arm as he considers going down on him again. But he likes the sight of Lee stretched out below him like this, and wants to watch him fall apart again. Sam slicks his palm with spit and closes it around Lee’s dick again, jacking him slow and smooth.

He glances up to watch Lee’s face, and finds him staring back, eyes wide with shock and dark with arousal. His hips are rocking up into Sam’s grip, but his shoulders are held fast against the table, one of his hands curled around the elbow Sam has pressed firm against his collarbone.

“Sorry,” Sam says gathering himself to shift backwards, realizing how much weight he has on that one arm.

“It’s fine,” Lee says, “don’t stop,” and reaches down with his other hand to speed up Sam’s flagging strokes. “C’mon, Sam, c’mon—”

Sam shifts, leaning against his thigh, pinning Lee more deliberately, more thoroughly, and grins down at him. “This okay? Or should I get your hands, too?”

Lee groans and comes, abrupt and sudden. Sam coaxes him through it, watching the way his eyelids flicker as he tries to catch his breath. _“_ Everyone’s got a thing,” Sam says again, feeling smug and a little out of his depth and more turned on than he has any right to be.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Lee says, twisting out from under Sam with ease. Like he’s making a _point_. Sam worries for a second that Lee’s going to bolt, but no, he’s just dropping to the deck on his knees, hands busy on Sam’s fly with almost alarming haste until he can get his mouth on Sam’s dick.

 

***

 

Afterwards, Sam huffs a small laugh and settles to the deck next to Lee. “So,” Sam starts after a minute, “is that something we should talk about, or—?”

Lee takes a deep breath and then lets it out in a great empty gust. “I… honestly couldn’t tell you.”

Sam leans in and kisses him, one hand on his thigh, squeezing once in reassurance. “That’s fine. You know where to find me.”

“Yeah,” Lee says. “Yeah, I do.” Sam gets dressed and heads off to shower and then review his gun camera footage, giving Lee one last kiss before he retrieves his boots on his way out the hatch.

Lee is preoccupied as he pulls his uniform back in order. He thinks about Kara’s casual roughhousing, Dee pinning him to the gym mat. Maybe he does have a thing. Or maybe it's just the still-newness of being intimate with Sam, and all that entails.

He pushes it to the back of his mind resolutely, getting to his feet and picking up the phone in the corner. There are more important things to think about.

 

***

 

Mail runs have a mixed reputation among the pilots. More experienced veterans dislike them; some, like Taylor, are openly contemptuous of the task, as if it's a waste of their time and skill. Others, like Kat, treat it with casual indifference, part and parcel of the duties they’re responsible for, though as CAG she’s too busy to take the role herself unless their short-handedness makes it necessary. Younger, more gung-ho pilots like Thumper, prefer it to supply shipments – “less inventory to track,” she tells Sam once, “less hurry-up-and-wait while they unload.”

But on one point, everybody seems to agree: they’d rather be doing _something_ , even mail runs, than sit around doing nothing.

For his part, Sam enjoys it. It lets him settle into the feel of flying without the pressure of the endless drills he runs the rest of the time, practicing formations with other pilots from both Battlestars, everyone expecting him to keep up. There’s no more time to waste on easing him into the corps, when orders could come in at any hour to start preparing for a re-engagement with the Cylon occupation of New Caprica.

It’s the first thing the civilians ask, when he shows up on their ships, toting sealed envelopes of documents that aren’t trusted to wireless transmission. “Any news?” the captain of the Galatea asks, voice neutral but eyes searching.

“Not yet,” Sam tells him, “You’ll probably hear before I do, though.”

Nitsa, the captain of the Sargon, has short-cropped hair, threadbare coveralls, and an empty gaze that stares right through him. “No word?” she asks.

“No,” he says, wishing he could give her a different answer. She’s not supposed to be captain, or so the scuttlebutt goes. When the cylons had attacked, her captain – but, more importantly, her _wife_ – had been down on the colony, checking on the construction of a mill they were planning to run together.

Sam wants to tell her that he knows how she feels, but he bites his tongue. At least he has one spouse remaining in the Fleet. Nitsa’s on her own, doing a job she never really wanted, without knowing whether she’ll ever get a chance to see the woman she loves.

On the Tarbadek, he’s greeted by a small cluster of kids, stranded away from their parents and shepherded by a wrung-out guardian. “We were here on a _field trip,_ ” the adult explains with a wan smile. “The next time I see Roslin, I’m _quitting_.”

Sam chokes on a laugh despite himself. “I guess these are all for you, huh,” he says, brandishing a thick packet of letters that the other pilots had been _very_ insistent he take extra care with.

The kids nearly climb him like a jungle gym to get to the messages from their pen pals.

Back in his raptor, Sam’s throat clenches like a vise when he thinks about their parents on New Caprica. Some of the pilots these kids have been writing to won’t survive a rescue mission.

He reports back to the Galactica, moving on autopilot. “How’d it go?” Helo asks him, signing receipt for the return messages he’s delivering to the CIC.

“...I met the kids on the Tarbadek,” Sam says simply.

Helo chuckles, then notices that Sam’s not meeting his eyes. “... _oh_.” He mutters a curse under his breath. “Come on, come with me.”

Sam follows him to the XO’s spartan quarters. “Have a seat,” Helo tells him, and Sam realizes there isn’t anyplace to sit except on the edge of the bed. “...yeah, sorry, I kind of… donated most of my furniture to the brig,” Helo explains, digging in one of the storage compartments with determination.

_Ah. Sharon._ There should be furniture to spare in the unused crew quarters, but it seems very like Helo to not consider that and instead jump right to giving up his own possessions rather than ransack what others may still want to claim if – _when!_ – they return.

“Aha,” Helo says, coming up with a half-empty fifth of some caramel-colored liquor without a label. “From the Tighs’ old stash,” he says, giving it to Sam. “Have some.”

Sam follows orders, taking a cautious sip, and hands it back. Helo takes his own swig, leaning against the counter, heedless of the papers stacked there.

“I remember when Kara and I met you on Caprica,” Helo starts, and Sam’s shoulders lock up. “I remember what it was like, down there. I remember being impressed, with what you and your team were doing. You were a natural leader. A good fighter, despite… everything. That’s why I signed off on your application. I knew you’d make a good soldier.” He pauses, and Sam wonders if and how he’s supposed to respond to that. “No one told you about the Tarbadek, did they? It’s too easy to forget that you’re new to all this. You fit right in, but some stuff can blindside even the most experienced officers. So. I should probably ask. Did I do the right thing, letting you sign up?”

Sam’s gaze shoots up from the deck so quick it makes him dizzy. “ _Yes_ ,” he says.

Helo’s eyes are sharp, wary. “What would you do, if your orders were to stay right here, doing what we’ve been doing? If we never went back to New Caprica?”

The vertigo gets worse. “That’s not seriously a possibility, is it?”

“Not what asked,” Helo points out.

Sam swallows hard. “Then I’d…” He thinks about it. Thinks about Lee, about mail runs and endless readiness drills and supervising supply shipments as resources get thinner. Thinks about the remaining Fleet consolidating down to fewer and fewer ships. Thinks about the kids on the Tarbadek, and how they need protecting – but more than that, they need their _families_. “...I’d probably do whatever I could to minimize that possibility,” he says carefully.

“What does that mean?” Helo prods.

“Doing my duty doesn’t have to mean giving up _hope_ ,” he snaps. “I’d rather volunteer for a one-way recon mission rather than think there’s nothing we can do, all right?”

Helo huffs a laugh and passes back the bottle. “Well, you sure married into the right family,” he says, sounding approving. “Not that the old man would ever admit it based on that answer. But I’ve seen him make the same kind of choice, more than once. One of those times, he let Kara get you and your people. Only fair we let you return the favor.”

Sam raises his eyebrows as he lifts the bottle, swallows a burning draught. “Do we have a plan, then? Is this you looking for a volunteer?”

“No, but… Racetrack got a signal from the ground, early this morning,” Helo allows. “It won’t be long before we should have an initial sitrep to work with.”

Sam surges to his feet, heart in his throat. “How long ’till we go back?”

Helo holds up his hands. “Couple days, I’d say. A week at the outside. In the meantime, I’m taking you off duty for the next day. Go see your husband.”

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

Lee looks up from his seat as Sam arrives. “Did you hear the news?” he asks immediately.

Sam drops his bag to the deck, beaming brighter than the sun. “Helo told me, yeah.”

“We’re going to get them,” Lee says. His legs carry him across the room, into Sam’s arms, and he has the unfamiliar sensation of getting lifted from his feet for an exultant moment.

“We _are_ ,” Sam says, sure and certain.

Lee has to kiss him for that, for all the things filling his chest that he doesn’t have words for.

When they break apart, Sam fixes him with a challenging stare, and Lee braces for a terrible come-on. “Now, tell me everything you know about New Caprica,” Sam says.

Lee laughs. “Is that why you came here? For intel?”

“Oh, don’t worry, Lee, that’s not the _only_ reason,” Sam says. “But I thought I’d start there before we got distracted.”

Lee shakes his head. “Yeah, all right. How much did Helo tell you?” He shifts back reluctantly, glad when Sam follows to sit beside him on the couch, where an array of printouts are spread out across the coffee table.

“Not much.”

“Good,” Lee says, nodding. “It’s good to keep a lid on sensitive intel like this. Hell, _I_ probably shouldn’t tell you much, either, but…” he shrugs. It’s nice not to work through everything on his own, even better to work with someone who knows the lay of the land as well as Sam does. “We got their initial report an hour ago. It’s… pretty rough, down there.”

“Tell me,” Sam says, earlier mirth stripped away, only his earnestness remaining.

 

***

 

Lee gets called away by the Admiral to a planning session on Galactica before he and Sam finish talking. “Let me come with you,” Sam says.

“No,” Lee replies, sorting all his papers into a single orderly stack. “Sorry, ranking officers only.”

“I’ll come along on the shuttle, then. You can find me when you’re done.”

“I don’t know how long we’ll be,” Lee says, but it’s not another ‘no,’ so Sam grabs his bag and follows Lee to the hangar deck.

They don’t talk on the flight over; Taylor pilots, making Sam wary and self-conscious. Moreover, Lee’s already got the locked-down expression he reserves for his father, eyes distant as he’s lost in thought.

He’s playing with his wedding ring, spinning it around and around his finger. Sam watches his hands move, obscuring and then revealing the flash of gold.

“... _oh_ ,” Sam murmurs, struck by a thought.

Lee gives him a questioning glance.

Sam looks over at Taylor and keeps his voice low. “I just realized… we forgot our anniversary.”

Lee blinks, then huffs a humorless laugh. “I guess we did,” he murmurs. “Tell you what, we get through to the other side of this? We are all going to _celebrate_.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Sam says, and gives into the impulse to link his hand with Lee’s, Taylor’s presence be damned.

 

***

 

The meeting doesn’t end until much, much later than Lee expected. Energy still crawls under his skin, frustration and worry and apprehension and resentment and a cold thread of fear. Part of him wants to go back and shout at his father about his _insanely stupid idea_ , but it would be neither productive nor as cathartic as he’d want.

The duty rack is quiet; he spies a sliver of light through the closed curtains of Kara’s bunk. He shucks the outer layer of his uniform as silently as he can and crawls in to find Sam asleep, a tattered Raptor flight manual wedged under his ribs. Lee dislodges it gently, and Sam mumbles, waking enough to scoot back, making room for Lee to curl up within the long arc of his body.

The familiar warmth of him, the familiar weight of his arm across Lee’s waist, the familiar sounds and smells of the room… all of it soothes the worst jangling of Lee’s nerves, but sleep is still elusive even as Sam goes soft and boneless behind him.

All he can think about are the few facts he knows about New Caprica, and the many, many things they _don’t_ know.

He knows that the situation on the ground is dire, and growing worse every day. He knows the alarming percentages of the population who’ve died from illness, starvation, and lack of medical supplies; who’ve been executed by the cylons; who’ve simply disappeared in the night. He knows how many have joined the “police force” the cylons use to sow suspicion among the human populace. He knows how many people have died in attempts at resistance, some of them via _suicide bombings_ , a fact that turns his stomach more than the executions.

He knows that Dee is alive, though he’d be hard pressed to prove it. The messages from the ground are spare, bare-bones facts in encoded text, but somehow he _knows_ she’s the one manning the comms.

He doesn’t know what Kara’s status is; no names or ranks are listed in the numbers. They are tallied simply as ‘former military, active insurgents or ‘former military, potential recruits’ or ‘former military, now sympathizers.’ The last number is larger than he’d like, but even one would be too many.

They don’t know for sure how many cylons and centurions there are; a source inside Baltar’s staff is leaking some information, but reports are conflicting, difficult to confirm. Cylons are difficult to count, like insects or flocking birds.

They don’t know for sure how many of the grounded Colonial Fleet ships will fly, let alone survive zero atmosphere after so much neglect and disuse.

He doesn’t know if they can trust Sharon – specifically, the Eight in the brig, Helo’s wife. Helo’s a good man, but he hadn’t been there when Sharon had shot Lee’s father, hadn't seen how her face had gone cold and flat in the space between heartbeats.

He doesn’t know if they can do it.

But he knows they’re going to _try_.

Well. Not _they_. This is the fact that rankles and itches the most: the Pegasus won’t be going back to New Caprica. _Lee_ won’t be going; he’s tasked with guarding the existing Fleet, far away from harm. Far away from where they can help the most with the desperate, desperately- _needed_ mission of rescue.

Lee's throat closes and he clenches his jaw, his eyes stinging.

“Hey,” Sam whispers, pulling him closer. “You okay?”

“...no,” Lee says in a ragged exhalation.

“Tell me,” Sam says again, like before, pressing a kiss against the back of Lee’s neck.

“I’m fine,” Lee says, then corrects himself. “I’ll _be_ fine.” He wants to roll over on his back, look at Sam, but his knees are already hanging over the side of the mattress, and he’d rather not fall out onto the deck. “I forgot how narrow these bunks were. When are you coming back to Pegasus?”

“When are you planning to transfer Stinger?” Sam asks, a grin in his voice.

“Don’t tell me that’s what you’re waiting for,” Lee replies. He thinks about it, though, and it could work. Dee as his XO, Kara as his CAG, Sam a pilot. They could do it. There may be griping about favoritism, but they’ve all earned their ranks, and the Fleet’s never been big enough for any of them to escape that charge, not least with the elder Adama being the Admiral. “But now that I think about it, he’ll probably want to be part of the rescue op, so I might not have to.”

“...wait, _what?_ ” Sam asks, voice raising to a normal level.

Lee gives him the loose outline of the plan, in the low murmur he knows won’t reach past the curtain.

“Where will you be?” Sam asks when he’s done.

“...with the Pegasus,” Lee says. Hadn’t that been obvious?

“Oh,” Sam says. “Right, yeah. Of course.”

“I don’t like it, but… it’ll be all right,” Lee says, trying to convince himself as much as anything. “They’ll be home soon. We’ll all be together again.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, sounding more sure this time. He pulls Lee close again. “Yeah. We will.”

As if telling Sam lifted some physical burden or barrier, Lee can feel himself unwinding finally, sleep creeping in to claim him not long after they both fall quiet.

When he wakes in the morning, Sam’s already gone.

 

***

 

Lee appears in the pilots’ ready room, just as Kat’s wrapping up her briefing. The pilots don’t get the generalities that Lee laid out for him last night; they get the practicalities, the tactics, the formations to practice until they see them behind their eyes every time they blink. They get their objectives, which is not the same as The Objective – they know the latter, but they’ll be drilled in the former, because juggling too many moving pieces in your mind while you’re on the front line can mean distraction, destruction, failure.

Helo leans against the wall near Lee, watching intently, already having given the introductory outline and pep talk. He’s good at morale-boosting speeches, good at conveying both moral urgency and a surety that they can prevail if they can completely commit themselves to the cause.

It reminds Sam, absurdly, of heading into a Championship game. He’d maybe prevaricate by adding “but with higher stakes,” but that would undersell the intensity of some of his former coaches.

Lee leans over to say something to Helo, and Helo turns his head to answer. Lee frowns, physically recoiling at whatever he hears, and he and Helo exchange a few more words before Lee crosses his arms with an expression like a thundercloud… directed at _Sam._

_Oh,_ Sam thinks. _Oh, this is going to be_ bad.

 

***

 

Lee waits for the room to clear, and Sam stays in his chair like every pilot who’s ever known they couldn’t escape the dressing-down they were about to get. His posture is eerily reminiscent of Starbuck’s, and Lee shakes off the deja-vu to remember why he’s angry in the first place.

“I’m _going_ ,” Sam says, like it’s final. Like they’ve had this conversation a thousand times already.

“You can’t,” Lee says, pacing across the open area in front of the seating section. “You’re too green, for one thing.”

“Helo says this is the best job for someone with my level of experience,” Sam says. “Lower likelihood of combat, strictly infil and intel. Sharon has experience—”

“Yeah, and Sharon’s another thing,” Lee gestures broadly, vehemently. “Do you really trust a _cylon_ to watch your back down there?”

“Look,” Sam says, “my time on New Caprica gave me plenty of reasons to be wary of toasters. But I don’t have the history with her model that the rest of Galactica’s pilots have, and I’m not as…” He pauses, like he’s looking for the right word, settling for: “... _weird_ about skinjobs as a lot of the Pegasus pilots are.”

Lee pauses, leans forward with his hands on the arms of a front-row seat. “I can’t let you go, Sam. I— you’d be better off on the Pegasus.”

Sam stands then, leaning over the back of the same chair. “You can’t _let_ me? Just outta curiosity, how well do you think that’d fly with Kara? Or even Dee? Why do you expect it to work with me?”

“Kara and Dee are different!” Lee retorts. “They have more training, more combat experience—!”

“Dee?” Sam says with an incredulity that he’ll probably regret later. “ _Dee_ has more combat experience? Are we not counting my time on Caprica?”

“No, we aren’t!” Lee says, hating himself for saying it. “You were a guerilla fighter hiding in the woods, not a serving officer of the Colonial Fleet!” He remembers everything Dee’s done since the flight from the Colonies, how she held up under sleep deprivation, how she survived an incursion by a Cylon boarding party, how she’s watched friends die in attack after attack, yet still holds fast to the discipline, the honor, the determination so emblematic of Academy ideals.

She was an _incredible_ XO. Gods, does Lee miss her.

Sam lifts his hands in faux surrender, standing upright again. “ _Fine_. I wasn’t a _real_ soldier. But this mission looks like it might benefit from someone with experience as a lowly ‘guerilla fighter hiding in the woods.’ Because I didn’t volunteer – Helo asked me if I wanted the job. I was his _first pick_ , and the Admiral agreed with his assessment. So I’m _going_.” He grabs his briefing packet and sidles towards the exit through the narrow gap between seats.

Lee gets the message: there’s no strings he can pull to keep Sam from going. He can’t leverage his family ties, can’t ask his buddy Karl for a favor. He’s reluctant to do either, every cell in his body rebelling against the idea, but _to_ _keep Sam alive_...

“Sam,” Lee says, following Sam with an urgent haste as the latter takes the three steps down to the deck in a single drop. “Don’t go… you can’t— _I love you._ ” He hadn’t known he was going to say it until he did, and it just hangs in the air for a moment while Sam’s shoulders draw even tighter, the line of his back coiling, and Lee thinks for a moment that he’s about to give in, come back.

When Sam moves, it’s to put the full weight of his turn into the punch that strikes Lee on the cheek.

It rocks Lee back two full paces, and he stares at Sam, dumbfounded.

“You know,” Sam says conversationally, like he’s not shaking out the sting from his knuckles. “I once complained to Dee that Kara fought dirty. Dee laughed at me and warned me that you could be even worse, when you put your mind to it. I didn’t believe her until just now.”

“But…” Lee says, haltingly, “Sam, I _meant_ it.”

Sam meets Lee’s gaze, remorse and hurt in his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. That’s what makes it worse.” He turns away again, and Lee doesn’t know what else to say to stop him.

 

***

 

Lee goes to his father, despite knowing that any requests to reassign Sam will be fruitless. He goes anyway, because he needs to do something, _anything_.

The Admiral looks up from his desk as Lee enters; something of Lee’s turmoil must show in his expression, because the Admiral stands immediately. “Sit down,” he says gruffly, gesturing to the couch.

“I—” Lee starts.

“ _Siddown_ ,” the Admiral grumbles. Lee can tell it’s a paternal order rather than a military one. He’s probably one of the few who can pick up on the distinction, but it rankles either way.

After a moment of deliberation, he sits.

“I officiated the Agathon wedding last month,” his father starts conversationally, pouring them both a drink. “Beforehand, I asked her if there were any cylon marriage customs I should know about.” He grunts under his breath, a harrumph of amusement, “Not that I’d ever invoke the cylon God on my ship, but it’s the principle of the thing, you understand.” He hands Lee a glass and settles in at the other end of the couch.

“Sure,” Lee says, not knowing where this is going, but knowing that his father will get there in his own time.

“Apparently a handful of cylons posed as and married humans before the attack on the Colonies…” The Admiral trails off, scowling at his liquor before taking a sip and baring his teeth at the burn. “But those were _strategic_. So, it seems, I presided over the first _loving_ union of a cylon and a human in known history.” He shakes his head at the irony.

“What about marriages among cylons?”

“I thought of that, too. She laughed when I asked,” his father says, his face creasing in an echo of that humor. “Said that cylons consider the idea of marriage… _superfluous_. ‘Each model is united in a bond more profound than marriage,’ she told me. Each knows each other’s mind and works towards the same goals and all are committed to each other so utterly…” He shakes his head. “Until recently.”

“Hm,” Lee replies, considering that.

“Humans have never had to consider it before, but it seems marriage is only ever possible between – or _among_ – unique individuals.” He peers at Lee over the rims of his glasses. “For all the good that does us.”

“Are you about to give me advice on marriage, now?”

His father shrugs, eyes shifting back to his glass. “Just making an observation.”

 

***

 

Sam doesn’t see Lee before he departs for the Pegasus. Everything’s a whirlwind of preparation, crew reshuffling and readiness drills and last minute supply transfers leaving them all with little leftover brainspace beyond the task at hand.

It’s good; it’s fine. He can’t afford to be distracted anyway.

He and Sharon have to leave ahead of the Galactica. Their departure, so essential to success, is almost anticlimactic in its lack of ceremony; the deckhands bustle around with their own preparations, and only the Admiral and his XO see them off.

“Good hunting,” the Admiral tells them, salutes are exchanged, and Sam climbs up first, noticing that while Helo walks Sharon to the hatch, they don’t say anything. They don’t embrace one last time. They’ve already said their goodbyes.

Three marines board after she does: Parr, who Sam’s played pyramid with before, and two others he doesn’t recognize. He still knows the Pegasus crew better than Galactica’s. He trusts them implicitly anyway. That’s how it _works_.

As the hatch drops into place, Sharon settles into her seat, glancing over her shoulder at Sam. “Hey, rook, you ready?”

Sam grins at her. “By my count, I have a couple weeks’ seniority on you.”

She laughs, flipping a bank of switches with the ease of long practice. “You keep telling yourself that,” she says.

As she lifts off the deck, Sam feels his stomach flip over in apprehension, the air in his lungs going thin. Like strapping into a roller coaster and feeling that first lurch as it pulls away from the platform, knowing that _this is it. There’s no turning back._

He used to like this feeling. He used to _live_ for it, on game nights.

He never felt it on Caprica after the bombs fell. There’d only been a grim, flat resignation at the inevitable. He’d woken up every morning ready to die, until the day he’d met Kara.

At least now, his hands aren’t shaking in front of the Marines. That’s a small mercy.

“Galactica, this is Raptor One, we are ready to go, over,” Sharon says into her headset.

“Raptor One, this is Galactica. You have a go,” Helo returns.

“Gods’ speed and good luck, Raptor One,” Lee’s voice adds, and Sam sucks in a silent breath through his teeth, keeping his face impassive. There’s no reason for the Commander of the Pegasus to send off one of Galactica’s raptors, but neither is it inappropriate, especially given the circumstances. A solo bird flying off into enemy-occupied territory carrying so much weight on its wings needs all the luck it can get.

Sharon looks at Sam over her shoulder again, her dark eyes knowing. She jerks her chin at him and he pulls on his headset. “Roger that,” he says, hoping his voice isn’t betraying any of the tightness crowding his throat. “See you all on the other side.”

And then they jump away.

 

 

 

 

— END —


End file.
